see you tomorrow anyway
you see: I’m no fucking artist, poet, whatever you consider to be a decent title for a creator of art. no more than a human; I can’t please you, nor her, or myself even. I like to believe that my singing could be considered okay because it’s cool to rasp and scream and that somebody gives a shit about the opinions I post here indirectly through lines of jumbled words.
the world is no place for artists without knowledge of how to sit in an office from 9 till 5 with a pen and computer; unfortunately, or fortunately for many, I guess this world isn’t for me either.
born for a reason- mine’s to sleep. get somebody on the phone and enjoy the silence of two awkward lovers denying the fact that there’s nothing left to cry over.
give me a guitar and watch me complain that I’m no Hendrix; give me 10 minutes and I’ll be putting together chords and voicing my thoughts, unable to stop until my throat more than just hurts in hopes that it will someday pay off.
the only artists that deserve the real title are our parents and the ones that died before us.
tonight, I’m following the lost ones.